


Five Times Kira and Lydia Are Not on a Date

by kirargent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Autumn, Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Hot Chocolate, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Skating, Monster of the Week, POV Alternating, Pining, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(and one time they are.)</p><p><i>Or:</i> Braeden tips them off about a suspicious bakery, Lydia struggles with emotional honesty while Kira struggles to work up the courage to tell Lydia she'd really like to makeout sometime, there might be a monster in Beacon Hills, and they should all probably stop eating so many possibly-poisoned cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizleminem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizleminem/gifts).



> I tried to cram in as many fall-related things that you said you liked as I could!!! There's even a tiny fake-dating moment if you squint! I really hope you enjoy this<3333
> 
> Thanks a ton and a half to [Maddi](http://holyhael.tumblr.com) for betaing at the last minute!! Your comments are always invaluable and you always help me feel way, way better about my work before posting :)
> 
> Note: Since this is set in canon-verse post-s3b, Allison is not alive, and with Lydia as a main character, I couldn't really get through the fic without mentioning her at all. So there are _mentions_ of past character death, although I kept them brief and as light as possible. Just a heads-up.

**I.**

It's Braeden who tips them off.

By the time they get her warning message, the threat has already been in town going on six weeks, which kinda makes Kira _think_ some things about the pack's awareness of the dangers around town. To be specific, about their _lack_ of awareness of the dangers around town. Seriously, it's a darn good thing they have Braeden and Deaton and Morrell on their side.

Braeden's voice-mail warning to Scott was something along the lines of “ _Marin heard something's headed your way. Keep an eye out for any suspicious new faces or bakeries._ ” Which, like. Suspicious bakeries? Kira's been coming to terms with the fact that she has a nine-hundred-year-old mother, but come on, being told to be on the lookout for a _suspicious bakery_ is a bit much, even for her.

And yet, she thinks, lifting her mug to inhale the sweet, velvety smell of her hot chocolate—here they are.

“Don't,” Lydia snaps, curt.

Kira blinks. She holds her hot chocolate just under her chin, where it can waft its warm steam up her cold face. “What?”

“Don't enjoy the evil cocoa,” Lydia says quietly, eyes cutting side to side.

Kira rolls her eyes and wraps her fingers more tightly around the fat, white mug. “It's just hot chocolate. What's it gonna do, bite me?”

Lydia lifts her chin. “For all we know, it might,” she says primly.

Kira does not reward this snark with an answer.

She does lower the mug a few inches from her face, though.

It's crispy-cold outside, just late enough into the California fall for scarves and boots and perma-frozen noses. The interior of Croissant-Moon Pastries, however, is toasty warm. And like... Kira's gotta admit. Croissant-Moon Pastries? In Beacon Hills—California's werewolf central? Yeah. On the suspicious side for sure.

Lydia's fancy Caramel Something-or-Other Mocha—more sophisticated than hot chocolate, Kira's sure, but not nearly as yummy—is placed on the counter by a young, smiling barista, and Lydia sweeps it up and herds Kira to a table by the big front windows, as far from the counter as possible. Kira refrains from rolling her eyes a second time.

Dropping into a chair, Lydia crosses her legs neatly and arranges her skirt across her thighs. Her tan, heeled boots come up over her ankles, but there's still a lot of skin showing between their tops and the hem of her flirty red skirt. Like, a lot of skin. Like, _holy cow, Lydia Martin has super nice legs that Kira would like to touch, just a little, please_ amounts of skin.

“Kiiiraa,” Lydia sing-songs. She waves a hand in front of Kira's face, snaps her fingers.

Oh, jeez. Kira should get this staring thing under control, probably.

“Yes!” she says. She is alert and paying attention and focused and not distracted by Lydia Martin's legs, no-sir-ee, not at all.

“You still with me?” There's a crease between Lydia's eyebrows. “You're not feeling strange, are you? How much of that cocoa have you had?” She grabs across the table, and Kira only just manages to snatch her hot chocolate out of reach without sloshing it all over herself. (Well, okay, a slight drippy mess does end up on her hand, but she can lick that up no problem, so she counts it a win.)

“Lydia, I'm fine. It's fine.” She quirks her lips up. “It's just hot chocolate. Honestly. I feel normal.”

Lydia looks unconvinced, but she settles back in her chair, crossing her arms, and doesn't press the matter. She doesn't touch her coffee.

“Lydia?”

Lydia doesn't stop carefully scanning the inside of the pastry shop: her watchful eyes track over the cute round tables scattered over the checker-tiled floor; the glass display cases of pumpkin cookies and marshmallow ghosts and delicately decorated chocolate haunted houses; the chalkboard detailing the day's recommendations in cutesy lettering; the pastel orange-dreamsicle walls. “Hmm?” is all she says to acknowledge Kira.

“Aren't you going to drink your coffee?”

Her eyes snap to Kira's, brows raised. “You're kidding, right?”

“Uh, no. Not kidding.”

Lydia presses her lips together. “No, I'm not going to drink this coffee. And you shouldn't be drinking that, either.” She goes back to checking their surroundings for out-of-norm behavior.

“You're being paranoid, Lydia. Scott and Stiles were here yesterday, and they're doing fine.”

“Oh, yes,” Lydia says, voice sharp. “Well, if Scott and Stiles did it, then by all means, let's follow suit. Their ideas _never_ end disastrously.” She gives Kira a look that makes Kira wonder if there's a goddess of sarcasm in any mythology, because if there is, she's pretty sure Lydia must be her latest manifestation in human form.

“Okay, not my most solid argument,” Kira admits. “Still, so far we don't have any proof that there's anything weird going on here.” She takes a deliberate slurp of her hot chocolate, which makes Lydia glare and herself hum with pleasure. “Maybe it's just a regular old bakery!” _Please let it just be a regular old bakery_ , she thinks. (The hot chocolate is really good.)

At Lydia's incredulous look, Kira sighs and backtracks. “Too optimistic even for me, huh?” Forlorn, she stares down at her yummy, yummy hot chocolate, then pushes it away so it can join Lydia's coffee going cold in the center of the small table. “I know, I know. What are the odds of someone opening a bakery called 'Croissant-Moon' if they're not evil monsters here to kill us?”

Instead of looking disheartened by this depressing thought, Lydia just looks mollified that Kira's come over to her perspective. Kira huffs, folds her arms, and slumps back in her chair to wait for Malia to get here so they can start studying. It'd be nice, she thinks, not for the first time, if high school teachers would accept investigating potential monster invasions as sufficient reason for late homework, but sadly, that's never been the case. And if she doesn't get to have hot chocolate to carry her through, at least she'll have Lydia to check her grammar and Malia to keep her from getting too bored.

Speaking of Malia—the door of the shop swings open with the bright tinkle of a bell, and Malia's long-legged strides bring her into view. She spots them and makes for their table.

“It smells _awesome_ in here. I'm going for some food,” she says, and departs again promptly for the counter. Kira watches Lydia close her eyes, force a smile, and curl her hands into fists on the table.

 

 

By the time she's done with her homework, Malia has gulped down three big mugs of hot apple cider and finished Kira's hot chocolate, as well as consumed a big, crumbly-soft spiderweb-frosted cookie that smelled really, really good. If Lydia hadn't been there silently judging Malia, who'd just said, “What could it do to me? I'm a coyote. I can't even get drunk,” Kira thinks she probably would've broken and ordered a cookie for herself. As it was, she just watched Malia sadly until Lydia kicked her with a dainty heeled boot.

Once their work is complete, Malia hops into her dad's car, and Lydia and Kira are ready to head home themselves. Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred within the pastry shop. No one sprouted sudden facial hair and long teeth, workers and patrons alike; no lights flickered suspiciously; not so much as a broken plate disturbed the cheery peace—though by Lydia's grim expression, you'd think otherwise.

“Okay,” Kira says, taking in Lydia's resolute glare and looping her arm through her friend's, “we're going to Starbucks.”

Lydia narrows her eyes.

“Hey, you owe me a hot chocolate,” Kira says.

Lydia rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch out of their pout for just a second. Kira grins.

The few block walk to the nearest Starbucks is spent without words between them, but that's fine. Lydia's clearly stewing about this whole evil bakery thing, and Kira's brain is feeling pretty wrung-out after bluffing her way through a three-page essay and staring at math problems until her eyes crossed. It's after six; the sharpening chill of the air inspires them to walk quickly.

The walk back to their parked cars is different: they take a slower pace, palms roasting on the sides of their clutched cups and elbows hooked together for shared body warmth. With a coffee that she's actually willing to drink, Lydia brightens up enough to pepper the walk with chatter.

“What do you think she is?” Lydia asks, bumping her shoulder lightly into Kira's.

“What do I think who is?” Kira echoes.

Lydia makes a high, impatient noise. “The shop owner. Wolf? Kanima?”

A dull disappointment seeps down through Kira's chest. Lydia's talking about the bakery monster. Of course she is. Why would she talk about anything else? She and Kira get along, sure, but it's not like they're _close_ , not like Kira knows Lydia was with Allison, or even as familiar as Kira is with Malia or Scott. Lydia always holds herself a little... separate.

“How do you know it's a she?” Kira asks, sipping her hot chocolate. Lydia's arm is still looped through hers, but somehow she doesn't feel quite as warm as she did a moment ago.

“Scott texted. He and Stiles got a look at the lease.”

“Oh,” Kira says. She hesitates. “Legally?”

Lydia gives her a wry smile. “What do you think?”

Kira considers. “Oh,” she says again.

“So, we've got a starting place, at least—” Lydia starts, only to be interrupted by a thin girl with long brown hair who stops in front of them on the sidewalk.

Kira can see Lydia raise her eyebrows. “Can we help you?” Her tone is sweet, but the same kind of too-sweet that lets you know fruit has gone bad. The girl's face pales. Kira winces. Lydia's toes deserve stepping on, Kira decides, and subtly jabs her in the ankle with a sneakered toe.

“Sorry,” Kira says, smiling awkwardly at the girl. “Um, she didn't mean to sound so rude.”

Lydia's face says that _yes, I did, actually_ , though her mouth says nothing.

“That's okay,” the girl says. “Um, it's none of my business, but. I just wondered... if you two were a couple?”

Kira blinks. “Oh! Well, n—”

“Yes,” Lydia cuts over her.

She sounds... Kira's not sure. There's an unfamiliar quality to Lydia's voice; it's fuller, and lacks some of its usual knife-edge. Kira looks at her to find her smiling at the girl.

“She's my girlfriend,” Lydia says easily, obviously meaning no one but Kira. Kira feels simultaneously like she's going to throw up and like her heart is going to thwack right out of her chest.

“Oh,” the girl says, her cheeks going pink. “Um. You two make a really cute couple.” She smiles at them for a moment with embarrassed eyes, then ducks her head and hurries past.

Bewildered, Kira glances back as Lydia tugs her forward by the arm.

“Um,” she says, her mouth feeling funny and dry. “Lydia?”

Lydia takes a drink of her coffee. “Hmm?”

“Why did you say that?” She tries not to blurt it, but to her own ears she sounds a little more panicked than she'd like.

Lydia looks at her. “Because you kicked me. I thought you wanted me to be nicer.”

“Well, yes,” Kira says. Lydia's heels make a sharp, authoritative sound against the pavement. “Um. Sorry, and lying to her was nicer how?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Because that was obviously the answer she wanted to hear.”

“What?”

Lydia twists her lips in that smile that tells you she's chastising you, in case her tone didn't make it clear. “Don't you have any gay-dar at all, Yukimura? She wanted us to be a couple because we're cute, and confident, and if we can go on coffee dates and hold hands walking down the street, maybe she can, too.”

 _But we're_ not _holding hands_ , Kira thinks. Not wanting Lydia to think that was her only take-away, she doesn't say it out loud. One of Lydia's hands is probably warm from her coffee, but Kira wonders if the other one is cold.

“Is your gay-dar really that much better than mine?” is all Kira eventually says.

“Oh, don't feel bad, sweetheart,” Lydia says, smiling thinly. “Mine is very good.”

And okay, what does _that_ mean?

Before Kira's thoughts can spiral too far into hyper freak-out space, Lydia's saying decisively that she thinks she'll walk past Croissant-Moon after school to keep an eye on things, see if she can spot the owner.

“Karly Dawson,” she says, her lips pulling down even as she lifts her nose a little into the air. “Doesn't she just _sound_ evil?”

 _Not really_ , Kira thinks, but she doesn't bother saying it.

 

 

**II.**

She is going to _kill_ that Kira Yukimura. What was she thinking? That Lydia wouldn't recognize those curls of soft hair spilling from under that black beanie anywhere? She knew Lydia was going to check up on the bakery once sixth period was over. She has to know that consuming anything from that evil place is a bad, bad, _bad_ idea. Does she just not care that she's being dangerously stupid?

With a clenched jaw and flip of her hair, Lydia shoves open the door with its annoying little tinkly bell and stalks through the doorway, enjoying the solid sounds of her heels against the floor.

“Kira?” she says, voice sweet.

Kira jumps, whirls. With a broken-off piece of flaky sugar cookie in her clutch and very wide eyes, she looks as guilty as Prada when she's used an expensive heel as a chew toy.

“I waf juft—” she says, then stops, swallowing back cookie hurriedly. “Lydia! I was just getting a cookie. They looked good the other day and I wanted to... try one.”

Lydia's most condescending _are you kidding me?_ expression has its intended effect: Kira trails off into silence, looking pink-cheeked and apologetic.

“But, um. You were right. About the cookies. And that we shouldn't be eating them.” She nods decisively as if agreeing with her own statement. “I'll throw the rest of it away. Come on.”

Somewhat appeased, though still with frustration simmering in her chest, Lydia follows Kira to the exit, watchful to make sure she stays true to her word without sneaking in another bite. God, but Scott should give her a damn thank you gift for how hard she works to keep this unruly pack of his in line. They get tipped off about an evil pastry shop and the _first_ thing Malia and Kira do is gorge themselves on sweets from said evil pastry shop. Jesus. She deserves a present, and a card, _and_ an award.

With just one more forlorn, lingering look at the cookie, Kira drops it into the trash can by the door, and Lydia grips her by the elbow to steer her outside before she can get any more fabulous fucking ideas.

They have just barely stepped out into the sweeping, chilly breeze before they're faced with a familiar figure and an expression almost as guilty as Kira's.

“Malia?” Kira says.

Lydia narrows her eyes. Malia looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, which Lydia finds maybe kind of amusing, considering that Malia's part predator, not part prey.

“Hey, guys,” Malia says, forcing a grin. “ I was just out for a walk—”

“All right, is this the place you've been raving about since last week?”

Mr. Tate's dark-eyed, hard-featured face separates from the sparse crowd flowing up and down the sidewalk, stopping beside Malia and looking up at the swirly-lettered sign that reads: _Croissant-Moon Pastries_ with its cutesy yet suspicious silhouette of a wolf howling at a pastry-shaped moon. Mr. Tate looks at his daughter, who's gone silent and tight-lipped, then follows her gaze. “Oh,” he says. He smiles, which is... still something Lydia's getting used to. “Hello, Lydia. Kira.” Kira smiles; Lydia gives him a nod. “Malia's been talking about this new bakery since last Thursday. Won't shut up about it, honestly.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Malia hisses.

“Are you girls headed inside? Come on; my treat.”

He's been this weird awkward-nice to them since he'd gotten Malia back, like he feels bad for being such an over-the-top jerk to them all before they helped reunite his family.

“We're going ice-skating after this,” Malia tells them, changing the subject. There's an excited sparkle in her eyes that looks years younger than her current age. Lydia wonders, suddenly, if Malia's been ice-skating since she was small. Probably not, she guesses. “You guys can come, if you want.”

Lydia presses her lips together, fluttering her fingers as her brain buzzes. “I have studying to do,” she says, letting regret color her voice. It's an outright lie, but none of them have to know that. “I might have time for one, but not the other.”

“Ice-skating,” Malia says with finality. To her dad, she adds: “We can come here another time.”

Lydia forces herself not to roll her eyes. _Whatever,_ she thinks. _It's your funeral_.

Mr. Tate looks a little lost, but eager to please, which is a familiar look on him. “Sure,” he says.

Malia grins, setting a brisk pace back to the car. Lydia and Kira follow at a small distance, Lydia wondering how her afternoon was derailed quite so easily.

 

 

It's fall, which means it's cold enough outside that Lydia's wearing black leggings under her cozy sweater, but it's California, which means it's nowhere near cold enough for there to be frozen bodies of outdoor water. The rink is therefore their destination, filled with bright, happy noise that bounces from all the hard surfaces.

Malia is impatient the whole time they're renting shoes, as if it hadn't occurred to her in the last year that she could go skating again, but now that she's been reminded, she can't wait a second longer to be on the ice. She tears off ahead of them once they've laced up their skates, a little wobbly but with her speed undeterred.

Lydia skates off along the wall, gaining speed as she gets used to the ice. She hears Malia's laughter ring around the big room; she turns backwards, fingertips brushing the side wall, to scan the rink for her friends. Malia's skating literal circles around her father, while he mostly watches her and grins like an idiot. Rolling her eyes, Lydia finds Kira.

To say she looks like she doesn't know what she's doing would be harsh, but saying her skating is “a little wobbly” might be a slight understatement. Scowling in concentration, she skates in slow, staggering strides in Lydia's direction, her arms stiff out to her sides. Lydia stops to wait for her, suppressing a smile.

Her cheeks are pink by the time she's close, her breath coming in frustrated huffs. “I thought—” she grumbles, “I thought I might be magically better at this. You know, the way I was with lacrosse? I'm a kitsune and then— _boom_ —I have some clue what I'm doing. Overnight— _poof_ —I can fight with a katana.”

Lydia grins. Kira's round eyes and soft beanie and college sweatshirt all make her look too cute for Lydia to take her frustration very seriously.

“It was the same for Scott, you know,” Lydia says idly, resting her hand against Kira's elbow to offer support as they glide along at Kira's medium, jerky speed.

Kira looks at her, surprise in her dark eyes. Then she quickly looks back to the ice ahead of herself. “Really?” she asks.

“Mm-hm. We came here once with—” _Allison_.

Kira glances at her, then seems to hear the name that fills every abrupt silence, and looks away again. Lydia takes her hand off Kira's arm.

“Anyway, Scott was hopeless, too,” she finishes, suddenly far less interested in recounting the story for Kira.

“Oh,” Kira says. Her voice is small. Lydia feels like an asshole, but can't get around the chilly disconnect between herself and the rest of the world enough to care.

“Yeah.”

Kira seems to hesitate for what feels like a long, long moment, then scuffs a skate against the ice and says, “Um. I'm gonna—go check on Malia.” Which is a silly thing to say, as Malia looks quite content zipping around and around in random directions while Kira is just managing to stay upright, but Lydia's not enough of an asshole to call her on it. It's her fault Kira has to make an excuse to escape, anyway.

 

 

The ice radiates up a cold aura that numbs Lydia's cheeks, hands, and the tip of her nose. She pumps her legs a little faster, propelling herself around the rink fast enough to keep all of herself warm except for her exposed skin.

It would be easy, she thinks, in theory, to skate over to Kira, take her by the arm again, and give just a short apology for her icy behavior. They could move on right away. Kira's just about the kindest person Lydia knows, excluding maybe Scott; she would understand, and she'd say it was no big deal, and that would be that.

But... that's all in _theory_.

In actuality, uh, _no_. No, thank you. Lydia's not particularly fond of apologies. They imply, for one thing, that she's done something _wrong_ , which she's not a fan of. Beyond that, apologizing to Kira might give Kira a false sense of how much Lydia cares what she thinks, cares about her feelings, and that just wouldn't do.

Lips pressed in the familiar mask of a polite but aloof smile, Lydia glides easily around the rink, enjoying the distinctive _cwoosh-cwoosh-cwoosh_ of her skates against the ice. It might not be too early to find Malia and her dad, let them know that, sadly, she should get home to her work. If she leaves now though, who's to say they won't head over to Croissant-Moon after skating, Kira in tow? All this redirecting will have been for nothing.

Still, upon catching sight of Malia's sandy hair whizzing past, Lydia sets her skates in the direction of her friends.

She is, apparently, not the only one with the idea to follow Malia, and she doesn't see Kira coming until a rapidly windmilling arm nearly catches her in the face. Blinking, Lydia halts, flinching back.

“Sorry!” Kira yelps, skidding past with her hair blowing behind her. Her arms flail and she bends almost into a crouch, trying to regain control of her direction and speed. Lydia watches her struggle for a second, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Kira's wide-eyed, tight-lipped face of concentration is ridiculous.

Once she's curbed her speed, she skates back to Lydia in a few slow strides, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry?” she says again. “I was trying to keep up with Malia, but that was... maybe kind of a bad idea.” She looks at Lydia with a nervous kind of hope in her eyes, like she's worried Lydia will snap at her or turn up her nose. Fair, considering that Lydia ended their last interaction so coolly.

Lydia forces herself to keep her expression on the kinder side of neutral. Without discussion or apology, she links her arm loosely with Kira's, steadying her without standing close enough to trip her up further. “Keeping up with Malia,” she says lightly, “might never be the sanest plan.”

Kira awards her with a shy grin before she looks back to the ice as they head toward the Tates. Lydia pretends that the sudden swoop in her stomach is because of Kira's unsteadiness pulling at her own balance.

They keep course in the direction of Mr. Tate's dark coat, and Malia zips past them a few more times, her cheeks swept red by the cold air and her smile and eyes bright. Kira shrieks, then laughs as she speeds past them close enough to stir up the chilly air in front of them; Malia's grinning the next time they catch sight of her, carving aimless loops across the ice.

On her next pass, she swipes the beanie from Kira's head. Kira yips, swinging an arm into the empty space Malia leaves behind. Her silky hair sticks out from her head in smoky strands, teased to ridiculousness by her hat. It's this ruffled look that has Lydia distracted—first she finds it amusing, then thinks _I now know what Kira would like with sex hair,_ and then has to come up with something unrelated to blame for the twist in her stomach—when Kira's outstretched arm tips her off-balance, her arm clamps Lydia's tighter to her side, and they're both hurtling for the ice before Lydia can right them.

Lydia twists—all she has time to do—to land on her butt rather than her face, catching a little of her weight on her right hand. She also catches Kira's weight. All of it. Kira says, “Oof!” into Lydia's ear, having landed right on top of her, bodies lined up from skates to icy cheeks.

Kira scrambles to push herself up on her elbows, untangling her arm from Lydia's. With no beanie to hold it back, her hair falls in thick, soft ribbons that tickle Lydia's collarbone, cast shadows over her face. In the startling white of the rink, amidst the bursts of bright noise, they're in a sudden intimate bubble. Lydia's lips part. She's careful to keep her breathing even, fully conscious of the fact that laying on top of her like this, Kira can feel her chest rise and fall. In contrast to the hard ice against her back, Kira is warm and soft against her front.

“Oh!” Kira says. She sounds breathless. “Gosh; sorry!”

Automatically, Lydia quirks her mouth in a sarcastic smile, the expression already in place before she realizes she can think of nothing smart to say. Her brain spins; Kira's teeth dent her bottom lip, and great, that doesn't help Lydia think.

“Don't worry about it,” she says, voice light. Her smile feels softer than she intends it to be; she clears her throat, purses her lips before Kira can respond. “Would you consider letting me up now, though?” she asks, as crisp as the ice-chilled air that surrounds them.

“Oh!” Kira pushes herself up on her hands and scoots back, disentangling herself from between Lydia's knees to sit on the ice beside her. Lydia rolls her eyes and sits up. She rolls her wrist; it aches a little, and her palm feels pain-warm from the impact, but nothing feels damaged.

“You all right?” she asks Kira as she sets her skates carefully beneath herself and unfolds to a stand. Kira is small sitting on the ice below Lydia, her ruffled dark hair and dark eyes intense amidst the white all around her.

“Yep!” Kira says. Her nose and cheeks are spots of pink. “Um.” She does something that's halfway between a wince and a smile. “Do you think you could help me up?”

Lydia's grinning before she can stop herself, a laugh escaping her chest. She reaches down a hand. If she'd known she'd end up skating today, she would've brought gloves; she has only a moment to regret that her hand will be freezing to the touch before Kira's equally cold fingers wrap around her own. Kira grips tight, and Lydia braces her knees as Kira pushes down against her hand, skates sliding threateningly in varying directions before settling underneath her.

Both on their feet, they're standing closer together than Lydia had realized. Lydia can see the tiniest smudge of lipgloss out of place on Kira's upper lip.

“Um,” Kira says, her eyes darting away. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Lydia says. A confident smile finds her lips easily. Kira moves as if to pull away, but Lydia doesn't loosen her grip on Kira's hand, reaching up with the other to thumb away the slight smear of pink from above her lip. In comparison to the iced air, Kira's skin is warm.

Kira's eyes go big. Lydia's smile curls sharper.

“Be more careful with the lipgloss next time, sweetheart,” she says. Mr. Tate catches her eye from over Kira's shoulder; he gives her a kind nod, and a freaking _wink_ like they're in on something together. Lydia doesn't know what he's presuming about Kira and herself, but he's wrong. Completely and utterly so.

This time, when Kira fumbles to pull away, bright-cheeked and apparently tongue-tied, Lydia lets her; but she does keep a steadying hand at Kira's elbow, gliding in pace with her to meet Malia and her dad.

Smile brilliant, Malia dangles Kira's beanie a few feet out of reach like she might a toy with a cat. Kira surges for her; Lydia stops herself from following. Kira can take care of herself, for fuck's sake. Lydia's not responsible for her.

She ignores that her arms involuntarily went up as if to catch Kira were she to fall backwards, folding them intentionally across her chest as she scrapes to an easy stop.

Mr. Tate looks at her with a tilted smile that is way, way too knowing for Lydia's liking. She decides she doesn't particularly care if he eats sweets from that evil shop and reaps whatever the consequences may be.

 

 

**III.**

Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is totally fine. Kira is capable of sitting in a car next to Lydia without losing her cool entirely.

Just because they haven't really been alone together since they were ice-skating with Malia and there was first that weird dodge around Allison's name, and then that weird touchy-feely _your lipgloss is smudged_ moment (after Kira had literally fallen on top of Lydia, of course) doesn't mean that Kira can't handle herself in the passenger seat of Lydia's car. Alone. At night.

They're driving away from Ms. Dawson, the owner of Croissant-Moon, after a post-closing meeting to discuss a potential catering arrangement. All falsified, of course: a pretense of a party with some guests with food sensitivities to pry into the ingredient lists of the pastries made at Croissant-Moon.

They still don't know what's going on—nothing bad has even happened yet. It could be that someone just needed property in Beacon Hills, a home-base from whence to enact their evil, dastardly, monster schemes. But, well, it's a bakery, and they can't let a potential risk go unexplored.

Scott's working unbelievably hard staying caught up in his classes despite their extra-curricular monster-hunting; Malia can't often get out of father-daughter movie nights; Stiles is busy with his dad; and, well, Allison would usually be Lydia's muscle, but Kira's the one who was available tonight.

She just wishes she could tell how Lydia felt about her presence here. They're headed to the Martins' lake house to meet the pack for both some discussion about evil bakeries away from parents and potential prying ears in Beacon Hills, and for some rest. It's eight fifty-four and they're ten minutes into the forty minute drive, and Lydia hasn't spoken a word to Kira that wasn't about the bakery case.

Kira bites her bottom lip. If she was bolder, she thinks, she would just come right out and say it: _Lydia, I like you. Where do we stand?_ But... yeah, that's not Kira. Kira's the girl who sits there silently and blushes, hoping the guy will ask her out, hoping the girl will make the first move.

And this is _Lydia_. From what Kira's heard, Lydia's edges have softened since the time she first started hanging out with Scott and his friends, but Kira's pretty sure that the Lydia she knows is still plenty capable of shutting someone down in most humiliating way possible.

Not that it would make a difference if Lydia were gentler. Kira couldn't even ask out _Scott_.

She sinks lower in the passenger seat, her neck at an almost painful angle as she lets the seat swallow her up as much as possible. She watches Lydia from the corner of her eye, and there's something there, something about always looking in from the outside and only ever getting a partial view because Lydia is Lydia, closed-off and wary—but Kira's not in the mood to pick at it. She's just in the mood to stare at Lydia's neatly pursed lips, and think about how soft they look, and really, really pity herself. If Kira weren't _such_ a scaredy-cat, who knows what their relationship would be like?

But she is, so there's no point in wondering.

Kira is feeling an unpleasant mix of dejected and thoroughly panicky by the time Lydia pulls off the highway and onto the long, forest-bracketed road that winds to the lake house—and they still have at least half an hour to drive. They'd hoped to be meeting up with the rest of the pack tonight with fresh, helpful new information about what's going on in town—an unfamiliar, supernatural-sounding ingredient listed in a cookie recipe, or a suspicious name on the list of caterers—but they walked out of the shop with nothing more than a renewed frustration that they have _no freaking clue what's going on_. Morrell was insistent that they worry about this bakery, and besides that there are the two semi-dismembered bodies that showed up at the hospital last week, confirmed by Deaton, at Melissa's suspicion, to be supernatural creatures who'd been living under the radar in Beacon Hills.

And then on _top_ of all that, there's the extra-weird with Lydia. Like, things were normal-weird (normal-weird being: Kira spent a little too much time thinking about Lydia's legs; Lydia had no idea; Kira did her best not to totally fuck everything in her new life up for herself by being too obvious; they interacted with minimal amounts of awkward), and then after the whatever-the-heck-that-was at the skating rink, things got _double_ -weird (double-weird being: Kira can't stop thinking about the pad of Lydia's thumb against her mouth; Lydia will hardly speak to her; Kira is basically losing her head wishing she knew what Lydia was thinking and wondering if Lydia would ever consider making out with her and also, uh, being terrified that instead of things going in that fun, good direction, now Kira's somehow managed to make Lydia totally hate her without even knowing what she did to cause it). So. Kira is. Tense, maybe, is a good word. Kira is tense.

Kira is tense, and this is why, when Lydia scowls at the night-dark road, says, “Let me see that list of caterers again?” and brushes a hand accidentally against Kira's thigh reaching for the paper, Kira jumps violently, hears a sharp, shattery _pop_ , and then feels and hears Lydia's car grind to a stop beneath them.

It takes her a second to understand what's happened. Or maybe it's more accurate to say: it takes her a second to understand what _she's done_.

Because yeah, that streetlight a block back? Blown out. Lydia's car battery? Probably fried.

 _Oh, boy_ , Kira thinks as the pieces begin to click together in her mind.

“What,” Lydia says, “the hell.” She looks at the steering wheel as if expecting it to explain itself. Then she huffs, releasing the wheel and twisting to look out the driver's side window into the diluted-ink night.

“Um,” Kira says. It comes out tiny. “Um,” she says again, forcing out more sound. “You don't—That was me. You don't need to worry about—monsters, or anything.”

Slowly, Lydia turns to look at her.

Kira gives a hesitant grin. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Lydia echoes. Her lips are parted, a crease between her brows. She looks too confused to be angry, but Kira suspects that could easily change. “You... stopped my car?”

Kira twists her hands together in her lap. “Electricity. Um, I probably—shorted out your car battery. Or something. I don't know much about cars. But the streetlamp back there's dead too, so—it was something to do with me.”

Lydia stares at her. Nerves bubble in Kira's throat.

“Maybe the alternator, then,” Lydia says. Her voice is thoughtful; her eyes don't move from Kira. Kira swallows. “Um,” Lydia says lightly, “you want to tell me _why_ you fucked up my car while we're in the middle of nowhere?”

“You—startled me,” Kira says meekly.

Lydia's delicate eyebrows climb toward her hair. “I startled you? So you broke my car?”

“I didn't mean to!” Kira says quickly. “I've been—jumpy, lately, and I keep—blowing out lightbulbs around the house without meaning to.” She bites her lip. Her insides feel crawly. She wants to get out of this car, out from under Lydia's examining gaze. “Look, does your phone work? Stiles should be at the lake house by now, right? He can give us a ride, and we can... figure out what to do about your car once we're somewhere warm.”

Lydia's lips press together. After a long second, her eyes flick from Kira to her phone on the center console. She picks it up and thumbs the power button. Kira can see for herself that the screen stays an unhelpful black, but Lydia states aloud anyway, her tone calm, “It's dead.”

Kira blows out a breath. Her fingers, twined together, feel cold. “Okay,” she says, her brain buzzing. “Um.” Anxiety tingles through her veins, makes it feel like there's still excess electricity fizzling around inside her uncomfortably. “Okay, I could run to the lake house and be there in just a few minutes,” she says, a thought forming. She sees Lydia's eyes narrow. “Kitsune super-speed, right? And I can tell Stiles what happened, and he can come pick us up in the Jeep.”

Lydia stares at her. The cold from outside seems to press in through the windows, leeching away the lingering warmth from the heater.

“Great,” Lydia says sarcastically. “Because stranded alone in my car waiting to take a ride in Stiles's piece of shit Jeep is exactly how I hoped to spend my night.”

Kira blinks. Then she frowns. “I'd come back,” she clarifies. “Once I tell Stiles we need a ride, I'd come back to wait with you.”

“There's no reason for that,” Lydia says, practically.

Kira shrugs. It's not like the idea of spending a half hour in this small, enclosed space with Lydia is exactly appealing—not with the painfully awkward nature of their interactions lately, at least. But it's still the kind thing to do; and besides that there's the fact that being near Lydia is still something Kira wants, no matter how awkward things have gotten; and lastly: “It's my fault,” Kira says. “It's only fair that I wait with you.”

Lydia rolls her eyes at this, and settles into her seat with a sigh, arms folded across her chest. “Fine,” she says, staring straight ahead. Kira waits a beat, in case Lydia's going to say something more—but Lydia gives her nothing but silence. Kira swallows around the small punch of disappointment that hits her in the throat.

She gets out of the car, closing the door quickly so not too much of the cold outside air can whoosh in; the night washes over her face and neck, cool fingers of lazy night wind slipping beneath her clothes.

It's late enough in the year and late enough in the evening for the darkness around Kira to be heavy, the trees that line the road turned to shadowy, indistinct masses whose remaining leaves rustle gently in the breeze. Kira keeps to the shoulder of the road, wary of traffic though she's yet to come across another car.

The running warms her some, but her speed makes the night air whip past her face at a biting speed, numbing her nose and cheeks. The road curves; Kira follows, taking cold air into her lungs with each breath.

She'd been hoping half-heartedly that the fresh air and exercise might help clear her head and soothe her aggravated nerves, but yeah, not so much. Lydia probably hated her before this little accident, and boy, if she didn't—now she definitely does. God, Kira hopes the damage to Lydia's car isn't too bad. (She hopes the same of the damage to their friendship, but really... her hopes on that front aren't exactly high.)

Oh, well. Kira will get help, go back and make sure Lydia doesn't, like, freeze to death or anything, and it's not like she's magically gonna stop having feelings for Lydia, but if Lydia doesn't want to hang out with her ever again, Kira's not gonna push her. A hot, achy pain grows in Kira's chest as she considers all this, and it's not because of the exertion, or because of the cold air in her lungs.

She's trying not to hope for anything, but—god, it's gonna kill her if things between Lydia and herself are truly broken.

 

 

Stiles is at the lake house when Kira gets there; he opens the door for her, raises his eyebrows at her wind-beaten hair. Kira tells him what happened. Well, sort of. She tells him the important bits; she maybe leaves out that she freaked out and zapped everything nearby not because she's 'been jumpy lately,' but because she's maybe kind of in love with Lydia and her brain decided to call time-out when Lydia's hand touched her leg. Because, like. That part's pathetic.

Stiles clambers into his Jeep. Kira gives him a tiny wave, then jogs off, accelerating as she leaves the lake house behind.

If she wasn't such a wuss, she thinks, she'd rush back to Lydia, get into the car, and blurt: _I like you, Lydia. I like you, and that's why I've been so jumpy, and I know I'll never be Allison and I don't want to be but I do want to mean_ something _to you, and what was that whole thing at the skating rink, and do you want to try being 'a thing', yes or no?_ And then they could spend the half hour awaiting Stiles's arrival with their cold hands warm in each other's clothes and their lips smudging up each other's lipgloss, and everything would turn out great.

Kira speeds back to Lydia. She climbs into the car. She hunches her shoulders and sits on her icicle fingers and bites hard on her bottom lip and says nothing.

Lydia is still staring out the front window, as frosty herself as the night outside.

It's grown considerably colder inside the car since Kira left just a few minutes ago. Pulling her hands from under her legs, Kira rubs them together; her fingers, half numb, feel strange against each other. She puffs a breath into her hands, then tucks her hands into her sides and sits still, feeling stupid and young beside Lydia's stoic motionlessness.

The silent treatment makes something coil up, tight and painful, in Kira's chest. She squeezes her eyes shut. _Quit being such a wimp_ , she thinks.

“Are you mad?” Kira makes herself say, eyes still closed. “I mean, at me?” she clarifies.

The silence stays unbroken but for the occasional rush of the breeze through the leaves on the trees outside. Kira cracks her eyes open to peek at Lydia.

Like she feels Kira looking at her, Lydia says, still gazing forward, “What makes you think that?” Her cadence is even, tone steady.

“Um,” Kira says. She swallows. “I mean, you've been avoiding me recently, so I just thought...” She curls her fingers together in her lap. “Look, I—don't know. It just feels like you're mad at me, and I'm... not sure what I did.” She ducks her head, looking at Lydia only in quick, timid glances.

Lydia tips her head back against the headrest. She hums out a sigh, her lips pressing into a flat smile. “No,” she says crisply. “I'm not mad at you.”

“Then why have things been so... weird?” Looking down, Kira clasps her hands and squishes them between her thighs, trying to will warmth back into her fingertips.

Finally, Lydia turns her head to look at Kira. “You're cold?” she asks abruptly.

Kira blinks. “Well—I mean, yeah, but Stiles will be here soon, and I'm okay, because I don't think kitsunes can freeze to death, or anything, so—”

Lydia unbuckles her seatbelt. “We'd be warmer in the backseat,” she says, tone matter-of-fact. She opens her door. Kira opens her mouth.

But, uh. How the heck's she supposed to respond?

“Um,” Kira says, scrambling out of the front seat and into the back as quickly as she can to avoid letting too much of the heat escape. “What do you—what are we...” She shakes her head. “What?”

She sits as small as she can on the right side of the joined back seats, legs together, hands in her lap. Joining her a moment later from the left, Lydia rolls her eyes and scoots daintily into the middle seat, beckoning Kira closer with an impatient hand.

She's produced a soft-looking, cream colored blanket from the trunk, and she unfurls it in a few shakes, letting its weight fall across her legs.

“Prada got ahold of it,” she explains. She pokes two fingers through a fray-edged hole in one corner of the blanket and wiggles them, then continues arranging the blanket across her lap carefully. “I haven't gotten to Goodwill yet.”

Kira watches her blankly. “Oh,” she says, like everything is cleared up now.

Lydia rolls her eyes again, holding out an edge of the blanket at looking at Kira expectantly. “I thought you were cold,” she says. With the hand not offering the blanket to Kira, she pats the seat next to herself.

And Kira understands the idea now, she does—but that doesn't make it any less confusing after they've been so distant from each other, physically and figuratively, over the past few days, to maneuver herself incrementally closer to Lydia until their arms are touching and Kira can faintly feel the body heat of Lydia's bare legs through her own warm black leggings.

Lydia pulls the blanket up to her neck, concealing her tasteful dress and jacket combo. Kira curls her hands into the fabric of the blanket—it's as deliciously soft as it looked—and tugs it up to her chilled chin, waiting in anxious quiet for their shared body heat to warm their constructed nest.

Minutes pass.

Kira thinks about the pale penny color of Lydia's hair spilling in a soft wave over her shoulder in the side of Kira's vision; she thinks about how warm and pliable Lydia's leg feels against hers, undeniably real in an utterly physical way; she thinks about the glass-fragile green of Lydia's eyes when her tongue skips lovingly, painfully over Allison's name, and the fearful openness in those same eyes when she says to Scott _I want to save people, do good_ , and the hot-flashing anger that resides in those same irises when a threat reaches dangerous fingers towards their pack. Lydia Martin is a delicate construction of contradictions, sharp and soft and cold and hot in ways that fascinate Kira beyond belief. Kira sits and feels Lydia's side pressed against hers and thinks about all of this and says absolutely nothing, because she's not fucking brave enough.

The car grows progressively colder the longer they sit. The tip of Kira's nose edges towards numbness. The blanket traps the warmth of their skin though, creating a soft, cozy bubble for them to share.

Kira's stomach swirls with the thrill and fear of Lydia's proximity. She can hear Lydia's breaths, quiet, gentle, periodically covered by the shushing of the wind through the branches outside.

“Kira,” Lydia says. Her voice is dry and calm, volume perfectly soft for the stillness of their surroundings. Though soft, it still shatters something, like the quiet had been made of clear glass and Lydia's voice breaking over the hard “K” of Kira's name made it collapse in a rain of tinkling shards.

Kira's mouth is dry. She swallows. “Yes?” Her voice comes out a little too loud. She doesn't turn her head to look at Lydia. Lydia's not looking at her, either.

“I'm not angry with you. I meant that.”

Relief cracks open in Kira's chest, a warm rush that makes her curl her hands tighter in Lydia's blanket.

Lydia returns to silence, like she can only do so much sharing and honesty at a time. That's okay with Kira. As long as she gets these little pieces, she'll stay content.

Lydia graced her with a sliver of openness; the anxiety in her chest tempered by relief and happiness, Kira slowly, slowly, holding her breath all the while, tips her head to the side and sinks into the seat until her head rests lightly on Lydia's shoulder.

Kira holds herself very, very still. Lydia says nothing—but she makes no move to push Kira away.

Kira allows herself to take in a breath. A smile surfaces, unbidden, and she has to shove it aside.

If she was braver, she thinks, she would do things like this more often—and who knows, maybe Lydia would allow her to.

Then she shoves those thoughts aside to savor the happy-excited tingle in her throat, closing her eyes and paying attention to the way Lydia's shoulder shifts gently with her breaths; the way her hair tickles Kira's cheek; the way she's warm against Kira's side.

They stay like that until Stiles pulls up, Jeep loud in the cool night. He hops out while Kira and Lydia are untangling themselves from the blanket and each other, peers in the front window of Lydia's car before spotting them in the backseat and knocking on the glass. He makes a face at them as they climb out of the car, bouncing his keys in his hand.

“Look, I'm glad you two had a nice cuddly-warm time waiting for me, but please don't continue date-night in the back of my car, okay?”

Feeling her neck warm, Kira mumbles, “It's not date-night,” at the same time Lydia arches an eyebrow and says coolly, “We will if we want to, Stilinski.”

She flashes Kira a thin smile that says she was joking, but Kira's eyes feel wide anyway, and she nearly trips over her own feet getting into the Jeep.

Lydia holds open the car door for Kira when they make it (finally) to the lake house, and she starts up a conversation on the deplorable quality of all the gloves she's encountered while shopping this fall instead of staying strictly on the topic of the bakery as she has the past few awkward days, and Kira thinks things are back to being okay.

Whatever “okay” means when she still wants to kiss the careful peach coloring from Lydia's lips and Lydia is still a little more flirty than friendly and they still haven't discussed what's actually going on between them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**IV.**

Lydia is cross-legged at the center of a ruffled sea of color-coded notes and graded quizzes, pencil poised weapon-like in hand, when her phone buzzes from the bedside table. She frowns. She has an AP Chem exam tomorrow, and she'd sooner eat a croissant from that creepy little bakeshop than be unprepared. She ignores her phone.

It buzzes again a second later—then, a split second pause, and another agitated vibration.

Lydia sighs. She unfolds herself from the floor and plucks her phone from the table, scanning the messages disdainfully.

_Scott: When's the last you heard from Kira?_

_Stiles: Dude, get over here._

_Stiles: We need your freaky banshee stuff._

_Stiles: You haven't been waking up in weird places and finding bodies again lately, right?_

Lydia's lips sink into a frown. What the fuck does any of that mean? She thumbs her second speed-dial: Scott.

He picks up by the second ring.

“Lydia?”

Lydia purses her lips. “Look, sweetie,” she coos, “I've got a Chem exam tomorrow and very little patience, so this had better be good.”

Scott says, sounding grim, “It's Kira. And it's _not_ good.”

A slow, sickly disquiet settles at the bottom of Lydia's stomach.

“Malia's driving Kira to my place right now. Do you think you can be here? We could really use another brain, but if you've got an exam—”

“No,” Lydia snaps. “I'll be there.” She's already tossed down her pencil and grabbed the first jacket in reach; she heads for the door, pulling on sandals that are absolutely not appropriate for the season. “What's—What happened? Is Kira okay?”

Scott sounds tired. “I think so. Sort of. I don't know. Look, Malia can tell you what she knows when you get here.”

Lydia clenches her jaw, flexing her fingers at her side. _It's not Scott's fault_ , she tells herself. _Don't take it out on him_. “All right,” she says, voice colored with a false calm. “See you soon,” she adds, tone polite but clipped, and hangs up.

It's after ten, and the sun has long since been hidden by the horizon. In her mom's borrowed car, thanks to a special someone, Lydia makes the drive to Scott's house in the sporadic illumination of street lamps, passing through their yellowy pools of light. Her heart sits in her throat like a pill that got stuck halfway down, heavy and hard to breathe around.

Her feet are cold. She wishes she'd grabbed boots instead of flimsy summer flats.

Malia's car is not in the driveway when Lydia parks alongside the curb outside the McCalls', and hasn't pulled up by the time Lydia raps on the door to the house.

Stiles lets her in. She asks him what the hell is going on (sweetly, of course), and Scott comes in from the kitchen with his cell phone in hand, and they scatter across the furniture in the living room to talk while they wait for Malia and Kira.

“Malia called me fifteen minutes ago,” Scott explains. He's on the couch, legs apart and elbows resting on his knees. His eyes stay on Lydia, but he keeps turning his phone over in his hands. “She was out, and she said she saw someone walking by the road. She said it looked like Kira, but she thought Kira was at home. So she slowed down to see if they needed help, and it _was_ Kira, but she was...” Scott trails off, shaking his head and looking hesitant.

Lydia rolls her eyes, shading her tone with irritation even though her insides are swimming with unease. “Spit it out, McCall. What's wrong with her?”

Scott shrugs, looking helpless. “Look, I don't—I don't know. We don't really know what's going on. Malia just said that Kira didn't know how she got out there or where she was going, and Malia had to yell to get her attention before she snapped out of it. She was just—out there by the road, going somewhere, like she was in some kind of—trance, or something.”

“Sound familiar?” Stiles asks. Lydia shoots him a disgusted look.

“Don't be obtuse, Stilinski. We know Kira's not a banshee.” Lydia crosses her legs. Her feet look pale at the ends of her dark blue jeans. She presses her lips together. “You don't have any idea where she was going? What she was doing?” A sliver of worry slices her voice.

Scott shakes his head.

Lydia huffs. “I swear, you two would never get anywhere without me.” There. Her voice sounds normal again, disdain covering up the terror like a nice concealer would dark shadows after a sleepless night. Good.

Scott looks faintly wounded, but mostly tired. Knowing Scott, she needn't bother berating: he's surely already doing a fine job of that internally. Lydia feels a prick of guilt, but she quashes it.

They sit there in uncertain silence for a thankfully short period of time before there's one hard bang at the door, like someone's kicked it.

Scott jumps up. “That'll be Malia,” Stiles says. His mouth makes an emotionless smile. He follows Scott to the door. Lydia stays where she is.

She hears Kira before they come into sight, the argument reaching her ears before its instigators are through the hallway.

A grumbled: “I can walk just fine. This is embarrassing.”

And then a matter-of-fact: “You were walking in the street next to the spooky woods at night, and there's something going on in town that we haven't figured out yet. I'm making sure you get to Scott's safely.”

Kira and Malia come into view at almost the same second, Kira with flushed cheeks and a displeased expression, carried bridal-style in Malia's arms.

Ignoring the hot rush of relief that floods her veins at the sight of Kira alert and healthy enough to be arguing, Lydia cocks an eyebrow. Kira notices; the blush in her cheeks spreads, her whole face pinking. Upon being set down on the couch, she scoots away from Malia, looking mortified.

“I'm _fine_ ,” she insists. She flicks big, earnest eyes from Stiles to Lydia to Scott. “ _Really_.”

Lydia purses her lips. “Well, you sure don't look it.”

Malia looks ratified.

Stiles snorts.

Scott looks a little pained, probably because Lydia was rude, yes, but it's not like she wasn't telling the truth. Kira's conscious, at least, and sitting up on her own (Lydia had had vivid images of Kira in much, much worse a condition), but her hair isn't as silky-straight as it was at school earlier in the day: it's wind-tangled and curling, a stray bit of leaf caught ridiculously on one side. Underneath her skirt, her black tights are ripped intermittently from the ankles up her calves, and while Kira's style tends more often toward tattered than Lydia's, it would be clear these rips weren't stylistic even if Lydia hadn't seen them undamaged earlier today. Where Kira's pale skin shows through the runs, there's dirt smeared on her legs, and a periodic wink of red—blood—that makes Lydia's chest squeeze tight. More dirt cakes the bottoms of Kira's ridiculous high-top sneakers.

“Well, it's true,” Lydia snaps. She looks around the room accusingly. “Is no one going to help her clean up?” She gestures at Kira without looking her direction. “She's a mess.”

“Thanks,” Kira says, dry sarcasm undercut by lingering embarrassment. Lydia still doesn't look at her.

“Personally, I'm waiting for an explanation,” Malia says. Stiles nods his agreement.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Scott,” she says sharply. “Help me get some towels.” She glances at Kira's wrecked tights, mutters, “And maybe a pair of scissors.”

It's Lydia who ends up kneeling on the floor and pulling Kira's muddy high-tops from her feet, ignoring Kira's embarrassed protests that she can do it herself. The rest of them are still just standing around—Scott's holding a stack of towels, at least—waiting for Kira to explain herself. Which is idiotic, in Lydia's opinion. She's voiced this thought, but no one seems particularly interested—and that in itself is _also_ idiotic, considering that the whole reason they called her here is that she's the one with the most experience with inexplicable night wanderings through the woods. They want her opinion, and then they don't listen when she tells them her _opinion_ is that Kira clearly has no idea what happened to her and they should stop grilling her about it, for goodness sakes.

Lydia wrinkles her nose at the mess Kira's shoes make when she sets them down on the carpet; there's a moment in which she feels bad about it, but then Kira's legs catch her eye again, and she's too distracted for guilt.

(Not because Kira's legs are very, very nice legs, although Lydia _has_ noticed this fact—objectively, of course, the way she notices and catalogs everything about everyone—but because she's considerably worse for wear after her trek through the underbrush. That's the only reason Lydia is distracted. Seriously, Kira's legs are a disorganized collage of dirt smudges and lightly bleeding scrapes, and if no one else is going to bother, Lydia had better clean her up before she gets stains all over Melissa's living room.

That's all it is. Really.)

Kira squeaks a protest when Lydia takes scissors to her tights, cutting them off above the knees. Lydia smiles thinly.

“These are completely unsalvageable, sweetheart,” she points out, gesturing with the scissors. She holds up a cut off leg of nylon to demonstrate her point; it dangles from her hand like a sad, deflated black ghost, tattered and discolored.

Kira looks forlorn. Lydia stops herself from rolling her eyes only because she knows Kira's had a rough night; it's not like Lydia's unfamiliar with this type of supernatural trauma.

“Look,” she says, aiming in the direction of cheering her up, “it's not like you need them. Your legs are perfectly nice. Showing a little skin never hurts.” She flashes a smile as she slices into the other leg, realizing only after Kira goes wide-eyed and blushy that her expectation of rolled eyes and a shove to her shoulder is based more on Allison than Kira.

Her heart sinks a little. She balls up the ruined pieces of Kira's tights and casts them behind her with more force than is necessary.

“You're sure you don't remember anyth—”

“Oh for fuck's sake, Stiles, no, she doesn't!” Lydia snaps her head around to look at him, threat in her eyes. She flaps a hand. “Go find something else to do with yourself. Put on water for tea, or something. Try to be useful.”

Stiles opens his mouth as if to argue, but Malia, who's been slouched in an armchair looking dejected, rolls her eyes, unfolds to a lanky stand, and grabs him by the arm. “Come on,” she coaxes, tone dull. She walks him in the direction of the McCalls' kitchen.

Lydia releases a careful exhale. “Scott?” she says. “Hand me a towel?”

Scott places the pile beside her on the floor, next to the bowl of warm water he'd gotten from the kitchen. He takes a ginger seat next to Kira on the couch. Without a thank-you, Lydia grabs up a towel and unfolds it in a couple efficient snaps. It's not especially plush; the color, maybe once a more vibrant pink, is faded; there's a snag at one corner and a white paint stain down one edge. A work towel, one that's fine to risk staining with blood. Lydia sets her jaw.

Scott's voice is gentle when it cuts through the quiet. “It's okay.”

Silently, Lydia lifts Kira's right leg by the heel and wraps a section of dampened towel around her ankle, rubbing the mess of dirt away.

“That you can't remember, I mean,” Scott clarifies, voice still quiet.

Lydia flicks her eyes up to see Kira give him a small smile, eyes tired, edging on sad.

Scott rises, movements gentle-slow; it's a way of motion he likely learned at Deaton's, Lydia thinks, working in proximity to anxious animals. Lydia shifts the towel to use an un-dirtied section.

“I'll give you guys some quiet,” Scott says gently. And oh, hell. He's probably thinking they'll do some heavy-duty bonding, talk it out, vent about the stresses of magic-induced sleepwalking. Lydia doesn't actually scoff at him, but it's a close thing.

Steps taking him kitchen-ward, he says, “Let me know if you need anything, Kira,” and leaves them with one more soothing smile.

Lydia keeps her eyes carefully below Kira's knee-level. The pinkish towel she's been using is being conquered by splotchy dirt-brown; she switches it out for a new one, this one a faint mint-green. She flattens a portion of towel over her palm and presses it neatly against the brown-red diagonal of a scrape. Kira sucks a breath in through her teeth. Lydia flits her eyes upwards.

Mistake. Kira's hands are tangled together in her lap, her eyes wide in a pale face, her lip between her teeth. She looks scared and small and vulnerable and like she could use someone to be kind to her, and, well—Scott just left the room.

Lydia permits herself the smallest of sighs. She pulls the towel away from Kira's shin, works on cleaning the mud from her other leg instead. “Are you—okay?” she asks stiltedly, because it's all she can think of to say. She's bad at these types of things, all right? Communication-of-feelings types of things. The blood from Kira's broken skin is an anvil-heavy weight in Lydia's chest, and when Scott said earlier “ _It's Kira_ ,” her pulse spiked and her heart jumped so hard it hurt.

But she doesn't know how to say any of that to Kira. She doesn't even know what it means to _her_. It means—something, obviously, but Lydia, who knows everything, has no fucking clue what. She doesn't love Kira like she loved Allison, and she doesn't love Kira like she loved Jackson, and she doesn't know if 'love' is even the right word to apply here.

But—she lets her eyes travel up, looking at Kira's white knuckles and pinched brow—it's _something_ , for sure.

“Yeah,” Kira mumbles. “Yeah, I'll be fine.” She stares down at her hands.

Lydia feels cold disappointment trickle slowly through her veins. There has to be something better she could say. Scott would know. He'd say just the right thing, and Kira would open right up, poof, _open-sesame_ , opened by the magic words. There's no way Kira's fine—Lydia _does_ know what it's like to snap-to and realize you have no idea where you are or what you're doing.

But whatever. If Kira doesn't want to talk to Lydia, she doesn't have to.

By the time Lydia reaches Kira's knee, much of the pale green of the towel is overtaken with dark streaks of dirt. She wraps a clean one around her hand and dabs delicately at a thin line of tacky blood down Kira's calf. She glances up. Kira smiles at her, tentative. Lydia casts her eyes down again quickly.

“Um,” Kira says.

“Sorry,” Lydia mutters. She pulls away from the scrape. “Too rough?”

Kira bounces her leg, then stills abruptly, seeming to realize how unhelpful that is. “Uh—no, just.” She takes a quick breath. “Stuff like this used to happen to you?”

Lydia goes still.

“I mean—I didn't mean—you don't have to... talk about it, or anything. It's just...” Kira's voice goes quiet. “It must've been really hard.” Lydia risks a glance up. Kira smiles sadly. “I'm sorry.”

Lips parted, Lydia stares at the towel in her hands. A stripe of cherry red cuts the used white. “I—” she says. Stops, breathes. The corners of her mouth twitch up. “Thanks.” She doesn't take her gaze from the towel. Her eyes feel hot.

Lydia blinks twice and clears her throat. She tosses her head like shaking hair back from her face before realizing her hair is still tied back in the messy bun she put it in while studying. On her knees at Kira's feet, she has a sudden keen awareness of her jeans, loose sweater, and minimal make-up.

Then she thinks _pull it together, Lydia; you wouldn't own these clothes if they weren't decently cute_. Not that Kira probably cares, anyway.

The thought jolts more disappointment through her chest than she wishes it did.

“Lydia—my legs are okay. Really.”

“I'm not leaving dirt from God-knows-where in these cuts,” Lydia says. But with the dirt cleaned away, it's clear there aren't more than a few scrapes, and none of them serious.

Kira sits quietly and allows Lydia to wipe clean the cuts, but she's finished the task inside of ten minutes.

There's... _something_ tingling through Lydia's blood, an antsy energy that's two parts concern for Kira, one part relief that she seems to be all right, and one part something else, something warm and soft in her chest that stirs when Kira smiles her tender smile or says things like _It must've been really hard_ or _I'm sorry_. It's this curious sensation that drives Lydia to fuss about once she's finished caring for Kira's wounds; she unfolds herself from the floor and scans the room, eyes fixing on a blanket folded semi-neatly over the back of the couch. Unfurling it smartly, she gestures impatiently at Kira.

“Lay back,” she orders. Kira's eyes are tired, but widen a little. Lydia taps her foot.

“Okay, okay,” Kira gives in, the smile that sparkles in her eyes weary but bright. She allows Lydia to situate a pillow behind her back and drape the blanket over her with an embarrassed, “Thanks, mom.”

“Gross,” Lydia says curtly, already turning away. “I'm not nearly old enough to be your mother.”

She hesitates before leaving the room, hands hovering at her sides as if ready to move into action. She turns back, smile in place.

 _Since Kira started it_ , she thinks. A hand on the arm of the couch, she leans over Kira, her smiled fixed in place—the smile that's the perfect blend of flirty, aloof, and amused, the one Lydia had perfected in the mirror by grade six. “All tucked in, darling?” she asks, pitching her voice a little high, a little breathy.

Kira's cheeks are pink. Lydia doesn't let her grin grow sharp.

She rests her lips against Kira's forehead for one second; then two. Kira's skin is soft, but still chilly to the touch.

Lydia pulls back. “Tea,” she says abruptly. “Those idiots are supposed to be making tea. I'll be right back.”

Voice slathered in sarcasm, Kira says, “Thanks, mom,” for a second time; Lydia's leaving the room, but she imagines she can hear the blush in Kira's tone without seeing her face.

 

 

'Those idiots' have not been making tea, they've been standing around the kitchen arguing in hushed voices. Lydia makes the tea. She has the immense pleasure of listening to the arguing; Malia, apparently, wants to go back to the road where she found Kira and try to catch any weird smells, look for anything strange; Stiles is against this, and wants to keep pressing Kira for information; Scott wants them to stay put, leave Kira to rest, and talk to Deaton in the morning.

It's with an almost too-hot mug cupped in her hands and a mild sense of relief that Lydia returns to the living room. “Tea,” she says, presenting the offering to Kira. “Peppermint.”

Kira extracts her hands from within the blanket and sits up a little, leaning back against the arm of the couch and accepting the mug.

A smile, made wavery and delicate by fatigue, but still so _Kira_ : soft and kind, with an odd dash of something mischievous and bashful at once. “Thanks,” she murmurs, holding the mug near her face.

Lydia gives no response, but Stiles' desire to bug Kira for further information compels her to perch beside Kira on the couch, an inch of space between her hand and Kira's tucked up legs.

She doesn't say _drink that_ , or _you should get some rest_ , or _I'm sorry this is happening to you; my crazy shit was never supposed to happen to_ you, or _Kira, I think I care about you more than I intended to_ , because that's just not her.

But she stays.

They sit in quiet; Kira sips the tea Lydia made for her, her head tipping gradually until it rests against the back of the couch. She sets down the tea after some time has passed—Lydia has no clue how much—her dark, pretty eyes shuttering closed and taking longer and longer to reopen. Lydia's chest feels warm.

By the time Stiles and Malia emerge from the kitchen, Kira has fallen asleep.

Lydia hasn't left position on the couch next to her. Gone limp as she sleeps, Kira's bent legs have relaxed to rest gently against Lydia's thigh. She's warm through Lydia's jeans.

Malia lifts an eyebrow. “Keep taking care of your girlfriend,” she tells Lydia. “We'll see you tomorrow.”

Lydia opens her mouth to rebut this statement, but Scott enters from the kitchen and shoos both Malia and Stiles home before she can make her argument, so she settles back into the couch reluctantly. Everyone at least semi- taken care of, Scott lets himself sink into an armchair.

It's abruptly quiet after the brief burst of motion.

Lydia feels Scott's eyes.

She looks at him. “What?” she asks crisply.

He doesn't give an answer, but Lydia can see in the soft, encouraging way he sets his mouth when he looks at her that he's noticed her attentiveness, noticed the way her eyes keep being pulled to Kira's sleep-soft features, noticed the same _something_ that Lydia is as of yet unwilling to name.

“Oh, shut up,” she snaps, though he hasn't said a word.

He knows damn well what she means.

 

 

**V.**

Kira tugs at the hem of her dress, quickly disguising the motion by scratching her thigh when Lydia glances her way. Not sly enough. Lydia's lips curve up.

“You look hot,” she says. “Stop being so nervous.”

Yeah, great advice, except that this dress is an old one of Lydia's, and way shorter than Kira usually wears without tights underneath—sadly, her plain black ones are ripped beyond repair—and Kira can't help feeling like she's walking into a trap wearing scary-tall heels and a silly dress that's too tight to hide a katana and too artfully revealing to keep her covered if she has to fight.

“I _can't_ ,” Kira hisses.

Lydia rolls her eyes, which is totally helpful.

And then—they're there. 'There' being Croissant-Moon Pastries, door propped open, entryway draped in tasteful fairy lights.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Lydia murmurs, not for the first time.

“And I have a bad feeling about this dress,” Kira grumbles. “But what do you suggest we do? Not show up? After we got individual invitations?”

“The entirety of the twenty-sixteen class got invitations,” Lydia points out. It wasn't a bad marketing ploy, Lydia had had to admit when they discussed the ominous letters they'd each received.

They eye the bakery from within the safety of Kira's car. The place isn't jam-packed, but a considerable crowd of fancily dressed teenagers can be seen through the big front windows. “There are plenty of people there. We could easily skip one party.”

“Teenagers skipping out on free baked goods and a chance to dress up?” Kira says skeptically. “If the supernaturally-inclined of us don't show up, she'll _definitely_ know we're suspicious of her. We can't risk it.”

Lydia's mouth twists. They've already discussed this at length and decided that not only can they not risk tipping off the owner of the bakeshop to the fact that they're aware of her malevolence, they also can't pass up a chance to do some more digging. They have no leads on Kira's awesome little trance-walking stint, and they still haven't uncovered _anything_ suspicious about this freaking bakery. Anything at all. Like, it's so non-suspicious that Kira's really starting to question the validity of Morrell's tip.

Lydia sighs.

They go in.

 

 

They pick their friends out among the crowd. Near a cutesy little table laden with cookies, talking with heads bent together, Scott and Stiles are wearing slacks and button-down shirts, Scott's a strangely vibrant purple that would look terrible on anyone else, Stiles' blue. Malia's wearing a pale-colored sundress and sturdy brown boots, and the hands cupping her fat mug of cider are clad in thick black gloves. Kira sets her jaw. She definitely could have worn one of her own dresses to this stupid black-tie thing; she'd allowed Lydia to convince her otherwise.

And okay, yeah, maybe the idea of wearing Lydia's clothes wasn't entirely unappealing. Like, Lydia has worn this dress. Her skin has touched this fabric. And besides that, clothes, for Lydia, are such prized possessions, carefully selected pieces of personality. Letting Lydia dress her up is so—

gosh, Kira's not sure. _Intimate_ , maybe, in a way. Something like that. Whatever it is, it makes Kira's heart thrum and her palms feel hot.

Malia catches sight of Kira and Lydia at the door and starts toward them.

But before Malia reaches them, someone else does.

She's a couple inches taller than Kira, her caramel brown hair curled into waves. Her dress is pale green, tastefully fitted. Kira watches Lydia's eyes scan her up and down, silently evaluating. Kira thinks, personally, that Lydia's sleek black dress and artfully messy bun are far more flattering, but she can't tell whether Lydia feels she's been out-dressed by the owner of the bakery or not—her polite smile and sharp eyes give away nothing.

“Karly,” Lydia says, voice low and falsely warm.

Karly shakes her extended hand, bright pink lips lifting in a smile. “Lydia! Is everything going well with your party planning?”

Ah, yes. Because they'd lied and said they were planning a party and looking for a caterer. This is all so, so great. They don't know what's going on, they've lied to a potential deadly monster, and now they're trapped in a small café, without weapons, wearing impractical clothing and terrible shoes for running for their lives. Kira doesn't feel terrified at all.

“It's going very well, thank you,” Lydia says, lie falling from her mouth smoothly.

Kira nods along mutely, trying to keep her eyes from going too wide or her smile from going too far towards a wince. She holds her hands forcibly still, refusing to tug anxiously at the hem of her dress.

“I'm so glad to hear it,” Karly says. Her smile is as bright (and probably as false) as Lydia's. “Oh!” Her delicate eyebrows jump up. “Have you tried a truffle yet? It's a new recipe.”

“That's okay—” Kira starts, remembering Lydia's vehement warnings about not eating sweets from the bakery they don't trust, but Karly has already produced a flat silver tray covered with little seasonal chocolates from a table nearby, and she's presenting them insistently. There's everything from simple milk chocolates with dots of white frosting, to orange-painted round 'pumpkins' and flat dark chocolates in the shapes of crescent moons.

Kira hesitates, eyes darting to Lydia. Lydia presses her lips together.

“That's very generous, but no, thank you.” She smiles, crisply polite.

Karly waves a hand. “Oh, please. Everything's on the house.” She smiles, her teeth very white. (No apparent werewolf teeth, though: Kira checks.) “I promise the vampire bats don't actually bite.”

Lydia's smile goes tighter; she places a warm hand in the crook of Kira's elbow. “We're not interested, thank you,” she says sharply.

Karly's vibrantly colored lips dip in a falsely big frown. “Are you sure? They're very good.”

“Yes, we're sure,” Lydia says, voice turning cold. “And I'm lactose intolerant, so I'd appreciate if you'd stop trying to shove poison down my throat.” Fingers gripping Kira's arm tightly, Lydia removes them both from the situation, stepping around Karly and heading toward Malia, who seems to have found distraction in the form of a tray full of frosted cookies.

“I didn't know you were lactose intolerant,” Kira says, frowning.

Lydia rolls her eyes, still guiding Kira through the crowd with a determined hold on her arm. “Please,” she says. “I'm not. I just figured I needed an excuse to turn down her poisoned chocolates.”

It's now Kira who rolls her eyes. “Lydia—”

“I know, I know. You think I'm being too cautious. Well, eat the damn candy if you want to, but don't come asking me for help when you're dying.”

“Okay, you're being way too dramatic. What is she, the evil witch to our Hansel and Gretel?” This from Malia, who's suddenly beside them, a cookie in each hand.

Lydia throws her hands up. “Fine. You two want to risk your lives for a bit of sugar? Go right ahead. I'm going to find Scott.”

And she stalks off through the pack of teenagers.

Kira bites her lip. Malia rolls her eyes.

Biting off the ominously waving arm of a ghost, she glances at Kira and holds out her other hand. A frosting-striped mummy stares blankly at Kira. “Want it?” Malia offers. “There's a whole table of them.”

And the thing is, that cookie looks really good. Like, really, _really_ good. Like, Kira feels a huge swell of guilt in her chest as she glances around for Lydia, but she takes the cookie anyway, level of good.

Malia nods approvingly. “Your girlfriend really needs to lighten up. One cookie's not gonna kill you.”

Kira feels heat climbing her neck. “She's not—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malia says, dismissing Kira's argument with a wave of her hand. “She's not your girlfriend. I've heard. But I've also seen the way she looks at you and smelled her fear when you're in trouble, and I'm not stupid, Kira.” She bites off Ghostie's other arm. “You might as well be dating.”

Kira dismisses Malia's idea that Lydia likes her. If it was someone else, maybe, but Malia—Malia hasn't exactly mastered the nuances of relationships. Kira isn't about to bet her dignity on whether or not Malia can decipher the subtle difference between friendly affection and romantic attraction.

But... the conversation still makes her smile, a little. Ducking her head to hide the pink of her cheeks, Kira excuses herself from Malia and finishes the mummy cookie in a few hasty bites, wending between clusters of people in search of Lydia.

She finds her with her carefully made-up features pulled into a pretty scowl. Heart thumping in her chest, face still warm, Kira reminds herself to focus on Lydia's mood, not the full pout of her gloss-shiny peach lips.

“What's wrong?” she asks, as gentle as she can.

Lydia huffs daintily. “Nothing surprising,” she says, brushing a loose strand of curled hair behind her shoulder. It distracts Kira for a moment, her attention caught on the carefully selected curls of hair loose from Lydia's bun to frame her face and flirt with her soft neck. Kira tucks her own hair behind her ear, pulling her focus back to what Lydia's saying.

“Just Scott and Stiles being irresponsible, as usual.” Her eyes flick up and down Kira. “At least _you're_ not stupid enough to accept food from questionable sources.”

Kira glances away, tugging down the hem of her dress. “Yeah,” she says. “Right.”

Lydia gives a ladylike sigh. Kira's faintly envious of how easily she's adapted to the glamor of the party.

“Anyway. Were you looking for me?”

“Oh.” Kira catches her lip between her teeth. “Um—not really.” Yeah, that's a lie. She watches Lydia's face; Lydia's long eyelashes flicker downward. Kira would love to imagine that the slight dip of her mouth is disappointment, but she's sure hope is coloring her perception.

“Well,” Lydia says, pressing on. “We've shown our faces. You think we can we go now?”

Kira can't think of a reason they need to stay longer. She shrugs, eyes tracking around the decorated room once more. Then she looks back to Lydia, and honestly, Lydia dressed up is far more appealing than everything about this elegant party put together.

Okay, that's not saying much, if you consider that they think the venue is possibly HQ for some sort of evil plot, and the desserts were made by a possibly toothy were-monster. But Kira thinks she'd feel the same even if the party was, like, an actually good one.

“Yeah,” Kira says finally. “I think we can leave.”

“Excellent,” Lydia says. She loops her arm through Kira's, casual and easy. The physical affection makes Kira's heart flutter.

They make their way to the door. Kira waves at Stiles across the café; Lydia lifts her chin and looks in the opposite direction. Letting Lydia forge their path with sharp elbows and easy confidence, Kira smiles a tiny smile.

 

 

The air outside is chilly enough to bite lightly against Kira's cheeks, soon numbing the tip of her nose. Lydia doesn't unlink their arms as she sets off for the car. A warmth takes up residence in Kira's stomach despite the cold of the night.

Lydia's heels sound sharply against the pavement, Kira's clicking along in unrhythmic harmony as their steps take them closer to the warmth promised by Kira's Prius.

“Lydia?” Kira says. Having left the party behind them, Kira's voice is alone in the crisp night air.

“Hmm?” Lydia breathes. Her steps are light, her expression calmly content.

“Thanks for the dress.”

Lydia glances her direction, smiles. “Anytime, sweetheart. It looks great on you, by the way. You should wear red more often.”

Kira ducks her head, trying to wrestle the smile away from her mouth. “Thanks.” She lets their footsteps fill the quiet for another block. Then, again: “Lydia?”

Another hummed response.

Kira takes a breath, anxiety coiling in her abdomen. “Do you think it'll happen again? The—sleepwalking thing? Or, whatever it is.” She chews on her bottom lip, awareness focused on Lydia's arm hooked through hers. She feels Lydia's shoulders stiffen, but only barely.

“Possibly,” Lydia says, tone nonchalant. “Maybe we should put a tracker on you, see if you lead us anywhere interesting.”

Kira's mouth twists. Lydia glances at her. Her expression softens a little from its sarcastic carelessness.

“I didn't mean that,” she says. Kira stares at her shoes. “Look,” Lydia says gently, “if it happens again, one of us will bring you home, and I'll clean you up again and make you some tea, and we can spend the night on the couch until you're ready to talk about what you might remember.” She's quiet a moment. Then, with a firmness beneath the gentle tone: “We'll figure this out, Kira.”

Kira is—overwhelmed. Overwhelmed, that's the word. Because Lydia is guarded and non-forthcoming and distant despite her obvious concern for Scott's pack, and she doesn't—she never—she doesn't _do_ this. She doesn't spill out words and caring assurances just for the sake of comforting someone, just for the sake of being kind.

Except—clearly, she _does_. Because she just _did_. So, yeah, Kira is—overwhelmed.

Heart beating a weird rhythm in her throat, palms and face warm, mouth dry, Kira flicks her gaze cautiously to Lydia. Lydia is looking forward, lips pursed. Kira just stares at her. _Say something_ , she thinks to herself urgently. Her tongue feels awkward in her mouth. _Okay, but_ what _?_ she thinks.

Lydia blinks a few times; Kira watches her harden her jaw. She pulls her arm from the angle of Kira's elbow, cool night air rushing to fill the now-empty space.

 _Crap_ , Kira thinks.

“Lydia?” she says before she can over-think it and chicken out.

Lydia's voice has a familiar aloof quality; she doesn't look Kira's way. “Yes?”

Kira sucks in a gulp of cold air. “I like you,” she exhales in a rush. Oh, god. She shouldn't have eaten that cookie; she feels like she might throw up. “Like, _like_ -you like-you.” She twists her hands together in front of herself to stop their shaking.

Lydia stops.

Kira stops a second later, turns, and retraces her steps back to Lydia. She gives Lydia's silence her most apologetic smile. “Um. You don't have to say anything. It's okay. I should've waited till I'd driven you home—I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry. I'll still give you a ride, and you don't have to talk to me—”

“I think I might like you, too.” Lydia's eyes click up to Kira's.

Kira stops talking, mouth open mid-sentence.

Lydia's brows pull down. “Maybe. I don't—I'm not sure, yet.”

Kira manages to close her mouth. “Oh,” she forces out. “Okay, that's...”

Yeah, she's got no idea how to respond.

Lydia's lips curve up in a smile. Kira's heart thumps against her ribs.

“Look,” Lydia says, glancing away and then back, “let's go out on a date or two. I'll work on figuring out...” Another glance away. “—how I _feel_ , and I'll get back to you.”

“Oh,” Kira says. “Um—yeah, okay.” Not that Lydia was asking a question so much as making a declaration. “That sounds—good. That sounds really good.” Kira fights her smile, biting into her lip, but yeah, that's futile.

Lydia beams back—well, as much as carefully composed Lydia ever beams—and Kira forgets to worry about looking like a total dork. Grinning, heart pounding with terrified excitement, she tells herself to _suck it up, Kira_ , and loops her arm through Lydia's.

Lydia doesn't pull away. Kira is warm from the inside-out all the way back to the car.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**VI.**

It's Scott who calls her. Lydia's already in the car, heading to Kira's with the intent to kick some kitsune butt because she didn't show up at Lydia's place a half hour ago as planned, when her phone trills from the passenger seat, the dorky-happy, grinning selfie Scott took for his contact picture filling the screen.

“What?” Lydia snaps, tapping _accept_. “I'm a little busy, sweetheart.”

“Witch,” Scott says. His breathing is uneven. “She's a witch.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Who's a witch? Whatever your Lit teacher said to you this time, Scott—”

“ _Karly_ ,” he interrupts. “She's a witch. She needs to restock on supernatural ingredients, and she's made Beacon Hills her personal convenience store.”

Lydia frowns. “She's done _what_?”

There's a harsh, dry rustling on the other end of the line, undercut by Scott's quick breaths. “Look,” he says, urgent but matter-of-fact, “she didn't say much before she realized we weren't under her weird trance anymore, but we're in trouble, okay?” More rustling.

“Are you running through the woods?” Lydia interjects, frown settled firmly on her face.

“ _Yes_. Listen, Lydia—you've got to get here. Come to the Preserve. We're—I don't know how deep in we are. I can outrun her for a while, and I don't think she has Kira yet, but—” a heavy exhale “—we need help, Lydia. We've gotta figure something out.”

“All right,” Lydia says, “slow down a little.” She spins the steering wheel, changing course. “Can you figure out where you are? How far from the Nemeton are you?” Then the question that's pressing most urgently against her teeth. “And what do you mean, you don't think she has Kira yet?”

Scott huffs, either in frustration or from the exertion, Lydia's unable to tell.

“I don't know what's going on, Lydia. And I don't know why _you're_ not affected when the rest of us are. But it has to be some kind of spell, or something. If you're supernatural, you zone out and then you wake up and you're in the middle of the woods, right where she wants you, and—”

Scott goes silent. The rustling cuts off.

“ _Scott?_ ” Lydia hisses.

Nothing.

“Scott?!”

Scott whispers, “I have to go,” and the line clicks dead.

 

 

Lydia steps into the tree-line, eyes wide. Her dress flutters around her knees, caught in a sudden eddy of breeze. She licks her lips; her hands curl into loose fists at her sides. She takes a step deeper. Her heels are way too high and way, way too thin for this.

As if the darkness that looms ahead under the shelter of the trees wasn't foreboding enough, pale, winter-stripped branches extend in thin, skeletal fingers into the spaces between the trunks, right where Lydia is about to walk.

“Fucking fabulous,” Lydia says under her breath, and sets off.

She doesn't have any idea where she's headed. Deeper into the Preserve, obviously, but that's not exactly the kind of specificity that she might hope for. Branches catch at the mid-length sleeves of her dress; dead leaves and mud pull at her heels and hide treacherous, ankle-spraining rocks and roots. Wherever she's going, she's not going there particularly fast.

She stops. Huffs.

Closes her eyes.

 _However the fuck you work, banshee powers_ , she thinks, _I could really use some help right now. Isn't this situation dangerous enough to fall under your jurisdiction?_

Opening her eyes and shaking back her loosely curled hair, Lydia glances around, picks a random direction, and starts once more on her way.

She's not certain of how long she's been hurrying through the woods before there's the sharp crack of a branch, a whispered call of her name, and Kira's wide-eyed face appears from amidst the trees.

“Kira!” Lydia manages to keep her voice soft and impressively non-panicked, considering the terror that's been pounding violently in her chest. Kira is okay. Kira is alive. Kira seems alert, not like she's wandering around in some mindless trance.

Kira stumbles towards her, arms raised to meet Lydia's reaching hands once they're close enough. Her hands grip at Lydia's forearms, and Lydia grasps back, feeling the solidity of Kira and thinking _she's okay, she's okay, she's okay_ on loop.

“Are you all right?” she asks, her eyes searching Kira for major injuries, though none are apparent. “What happened? What's going on? Is Scott—?”

“Lydia, slow down.”

Lydia nods, pressing her lips together. She swallows, finding her composure. “Of course,” she says, tone lighter. “Sorry.”

Kira takes a deep breath, blinking fast. “I'm glad you're here,” she says, managing a distracted smile. A faint warmth blossoms in Lydia's chest despite the circumstances. “Karly is—”

“A witch,” Lydia finishes. “I heard. Where's Scott?”

Kira shakes her head. “I don't know. It happened again, Lydia. The whole sleepwalking thing? Only this time when I woke up, we were in this clearing—me, Scott, and Malia—and Karly was there, and—”

“But not Stiles?” Lydia interrupts, her brain whirring.

Kira shakes her head. “Not Stiles. Why?”

“He's human,” Lydia states. “It must not affect humans. And _I'm_ all right, too.” She narrows her eyes. “And unlike the rest of you, I didn't eat anything from Karly's bakery.”

Kira frowns. “You think it has something to do with the food?”

“It must. Why else would I be the only one unaffected?”

Kira shrugs. “Banshee thing?”

Lydia shakes her head. “I don't think so. It got to you the same way it did Scott and Malia. There doesn't seem to be difference between supernatural species. Besides, she was insistent on getting us to try her truffles, remember? Why else would she be so anxious to get us to eat her candy?”

“Okay,” Kira says slowly. “That could make sense.” Her eyebrows jump. “When Scott and I saw each other, we snapped out of it, but Malia didn't wake up,” she says, looking serious. “She ate way more than either of us, right? Or... maybe it doesn't work as well on kitsunes. And Scott's an alpha, so maybe it had less pull on him?” Kira makes a face. “I don't know, Lydia.”

Lydia shakes her head. “The food thing makes sense. That's got to be it.” She pauses. “Kira, what are you still doing here? You're the fastest runner I know.”

“What was I gonna do, leave Scott and Malia out here alone?”

“You could've gone for _help_ —” Lydia starts, only to be cut off.

“Scott and I split up, and I circled back to the clearing to get Malia while Karly was busy chasing us down,” Kira explains. Her face sours. “She had Malia tied up with chains, like she was saving her to deal with later. I couldn't get Malia free before—” Her face goes pale. “Before Scott was roaring.” She frowns again. “I came this way looking for him. You didn't see anything?”

Lydia shakes her head. Kira's face is tight.

“We'd better keep looking.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows, lips pursing in a sarcastic smile. “And then what?” she demands. “We take down a witch—something we're entirely unfamiliar with, by the way—with our bare hands and winning smiles? I don't think so. We're waiting for help.”

“By then it could be too late!” Kira argues. “I'll keep looking for Scott, and you go back for Malia. I don't think Karly'll be heading back there yet, so you should be safe.”

 _It's not_ me _I'm worried about_ , Lydia wants to snap, but doesn't. Way too touchy-feely, thanks.

Kira turns to start back into the trees; Lydia grabs her arm. “Stop it,” she hisses. “You're being stupid.”

“So are you!” Kira shoots back, voice rising. “I know we're unprepared, but we can't just not try!”

 _Yes, we can, actually_ , Lydia thinks. _And that way you would stay safe_. She bites those thoughts down. “Kira...” she says instead, loosening her grip on Kira's arm. _I'm worried_. Just say it. Tell her you're worried. You've already admitted that you probably like her; this is no big deal.

And yet, somehow, it is, apparently, because Lydia can't seem to force the words from her throat.

Kira's face softens a little. “I'm going after Scott,” she says, calm but firm. “You can keep trying to stop me, or you can go get Malia. The faster you are, the sooner you two can come back and help us.”

Lydia takes a breath through her nose, closing her eyes. “Fine,” she says, though it's the last thing she wants to say. She meets Kira's eyes. “But be caref—”

“ _There_ you are,” a voice says.

Lydia jumps; Kira spins around.

“You should've gotten out of the woods while you could have, girls,” Karly says sweetly.

Kira takes a tiny step back, half lifting an arm as if to shield Lydia.

“What did you do to Scott?” Kira demands.

Karly's mouth curves in a grin. In dark jeans and a black shirt, she's dressed far more casually than the night of the party, but her bright lipstick is the same. “Nothing,” she says. “Yet. Come on, kitsune—just come with me, and then I can get started harvesting what I need from you and your friends.” Her eyes flick to Lydia. “The banshee can come, too.”

Kira's back goes stiff. “No _way_ ,” she spits—and runs forward.

“Kira—!”

“Lydia, stay back!” Kira yells. Which, hell no. But whether Lydia does or doesn't comply doesn't prove to matter, because she hasn't taken more than a single step forward before Karly flicks a hand, smiling broadly, and Kira's body is flung sideways.

“ _Kira!_ ” Lydia shrieks. With a horrible dull smack, Kira collides with a tree. She falls to the ground. Her head doesn't lift.

 _No_ , Lydia thinks. _No, no, no,_ no.

And she realizes, then. There's this moment of sharp, crystallized clarity, and she knows: she definitely fucking likes Kira Yukimura. Hell, she's probably well on her way to loving this stupid, reckless, altruistic girl. She's completely, disgustingly, embarrassingly head-over-heels—and now Kira is lying on the ground, limp and motionless like a broken toy.

 _No_ , Lydia thinks again.

She tears her gaze from Kira's unmoving form to Karly's dangerous smile. “What did you do to her?” she grates out.

“Oh, don't fret. I haven't harmed her yet.” She glances at Kira's body, tilts her head. “Well, not irreparably.” Her eyes find Lydia again, smile showing teeth. “It's remarkable how easy it is to control someone once you've gotten them to consume the right ingredients. A little wolfsbane; a little kanima venom; a little of your own blood, of course. Turns out it's mildly addictive to supernatural creatures, too, so it's not even a challenge to get them to ingest enough.”

Lydia feels faintly sick. She'd had a bad feeling about the food from the bakery all along, and she still didn't manage to keep her friends safe. (Keep _Kira_ safe.) What good is she if she can't protect them even when she knows exactly what the danger is?

“You were a bit of a problem, little banshee, but I needed the others more. Do you have any idea how many spells call for werewolf teeth?” She shakes her head. “And then I heard there was a true alpha here in Beacon Hills. I just couldn't pass that up.” Her smile curls sharper. “But then I get here, and not only is there a true alpha, but a kitsune?”

Anger coils in Lydia's stomach.

Karly shakes her head, still smiling that awful smile. “I have to say, I really hit the jackpot. Now. You can either come with me, Lydia, and I'll make it quick, or you can struggle, and once I catch you, I'll make you watch while I dice up your friends.”

Her eyes flick to Kira, then back to Lydia with a knowing glint.

“I think I'll save the kitsune for last.”

And that's it. Somewhere inside Lydia's abdomen something snaps sharply, and she thinks, _I want you to fucking hurt_ , and she opens her mouth—and she screams.

It's a hell of a thing, the scream.

She feels it flowing up all the way from her toes, pouring out of her mouth as she thinks _no_ and _you can't have Kira_ and _I hate your guts_ and _I want you to feel agony_. Which is pretty dark, Lydia admits.

She doesn't care. She can't think of anything but Kira's still-unmoving form, limp at the base of a tree.

If Kira's not—if she's not okay, then she's gone without Lydia having told her she cares about her, definitely, for sure, not some half-assed ' _maybe_ ' thing. Lydia is so, so fucking stupid. She's really got to get over this difficulty she has with emotional honesty.

Her throat burns with a raw-scraped ache.

She realizes, distantly, that Karly's smile is gone, her hands clapped to her ears; Lydia watches her fall to her knees.

Lydia's stomach clenches; her lungs burn. Air gone, she abruptly falls silent.

In the too-quiet, the trees seem to echo weirdly with the memory of the scream.

Karly collapses.

Lydia ignores her.

“Kira?” she says, half breathless, her voice scratched dry. Her legs take her most of the way to Kira before they give out, and then she's on her knees on the cold, gross forest carpet woven of wet fallen leaves and clinging dirt. She grabs at Kira's shoulder and rolls her as gently as she can onto her back. She can see Kira's chest rising and falling, at least; she latches onto that tightly.

“Kira,” she says again, more solidly. “Kira, wake up. You're still breathing; you're fine; I need you to wake up now.” She takes a breath. “I _want_ you to wake up now.” She curls her fingers into her skirt. “Come on, Kira.”

Kira's breaths stay steady; her eyes stay closed.

“Oh,” Lydia says, lips pushing together, “screw it.” She shakes Kira by the shoulder. Gently, of course. When Kira's eyes stay closed, she does it once more, careful not to let the back of Kira's head bounce against the ground.

Eyebrows dipping together as she frowns, Kira blinks her eyes open.

Lydia smiles thinly, relief fireworking in her chest. “You're awake,” she says. “Good.”

Kira's lips part, the confusion still evident on her face. “Um,” she says, scrambling to sit up. She winces as she moves; Lydia's hands hover near her without touching, uncertain what to do. Maneuvering herself mostly with her arms, Kira situates herself leaning back against the tree.

“I'll heal,” she says, responding to Lydia's concerned expression. “And it's not actually that bad, anyway.” She pauses. “But, um. What happened?” She peers around Lydia to where Karly lies prone on the ground.

Lydia smirks. “I took down a witch with my bare hands and winning smile.”

Kira blinks at her.

Lydia laughs, folding her legs to sit beside Kira instead of kneeling in front of her. “Relax. I think she's out of commission for now.” Palms tingling, she rests a hand over one of Kira's, lying on her leg.

“Okay,” Kira says slowly, looking faintly bemused. She glances at Lydia, then ducks her gaze away, biting her bottom lip. “Um,” she says. “Sorry. I know this probably isn't what you had in mind for our first date.”

A grin tugs Lydia's mouth; she bumps her shoulder against Kira's. “I don't know,” she says lightly. “For us, I think it's fairly fitting, don't you?” She gives Kira a conspiratorial smile, and Kira smiles back at her, looking embarrassed but relieved.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she agrees. Then her smile falls; she looks away again. “Um. Really, though... do you think you'd be willing to try another date sometime? Like, a real one, I mean. I know you said you had to figure out your feelings.” She draws her hand out from under Lydia's to curl it into her other one, clasping them in her lap. She stares down at her legs. “And I get it if after tonight you've changed your mind.”

Silently, Lydia reaches out to part Kira's tangled-together hands. Kira looks at her, curious and a little wary, as Lydia laces her fingers through Kira's.

“I would absolutely be willing to try another date,” she says, smiling softly. Her eyes are intent on Kira's, so she gets to watch Kira's expression flash-cut from hesitant to hopeful to happy.

“Yeah?” she asks, voice small.

“Yes,” Lydia says. She drops her smile, making her expression serious. “But a real date this time, not another one like this,” she says. “A little less getting knocked out, all right? Because that was—” She looks away, eyes accidentally catching on Karly, then looks back. She purses her lips into a smile. “Let's just say I've sorted my feelings out. I definitely, definitely like you, Kira Yukimura.”

Kira bites her lip as if to stifle a smile, but the smile wins out, blooming over her face like sunshine. Lydia is helpless to do anything but smile back.

Heart thudding away against her ribs, Lydia leans closer to Kira, raising the hand that's not tangled with Kira's fingers to cradle Kira's jaw. Their eyes lock for a moment, noses nearly touching. They're sitting in the middle of the Preserve at night and it's disgustingly muddy and really fucking cold and there's an unconscious witch lying a few yards away whom Lydia's not a hundred percent sure she didn't kill, but here's the thing: all Lydia can seem to focus on is Kira right beside her, warm and very alive and oh, now they're kissing, that's good, that's very good, Lydia is so on board with this.

Kira's lips are soft on hers, and they part easily, happily, warm mouth open for Lydia's exploration. One of her hands grasps tighter at Lydia's; Lydia feels the other suddenly in her hair, cupping the back of her neck to draw her in closer. And then her fucking phone buzzes.

Lydia's shoulders slump, her giddy energy dimming a little. She pulls her lips from Kira's but stays leaning in close, their foreheads touching, smiles mirror images.

“You should get that,” Kira says.

“I should,” Lydia agrees. And she does, but only after stealing another tiny kiss.

She manages to keep from sounding entirely too snappish when she says, “Hello?”

It's Deaton, who she called from the car on her way to the Preserve. He's finally gotten here. 'Here' happens to be a big place, though, and he needs directions. Smiling, one hand tucked into Kira's, Lydia says, “I'll send someone to meet you. And don't rush—we took care of the situation.”

“I'll guide him,” Kira says once she hangs up.

“Have you healed yet?” Lydia asks. “Are you sure?”

Kira nods. “I'm way faster than you, anyway.”

 _And_ , Lydia thinks, _this way I'm the one to keep an eye on Karly, and you're the one heading away from the danger_. But she doesn't say that, because then Kira might argue.

“All right then, Flash,” Lydia says.

Kira blinks at her.

“What?” Lydia says. “I read comics.” (She does. Only because Kira likes them, but it's not like Kira needs to know that.)

Kira hesitates. Then: “I really like you,” she says quietly, smile bashful but brilliant. And then she zips off between the trees.

She's gone several full minutes before Lydia can get ahold of herself enough wipe the stupid lovestruck smile from her face.

 

 

Stiles has shown up by the time they're all exiting the woods, and he's loudly professing how indignant he is that he wasn't called until everything was over. Malia is thoroughly embarrassed at having been bested by a few cookies, and has a scowl fixed firmly on her face, but Scott and Stiles are both offering her reassurances. And Lydia _didn't_ kill the wicked witch, which is a bit of a relief. Deaton has her bound with a strange-looking rope that he assures her will hold. There's a cell in Eichen waiting for Karly.

“I'll call Braeden tomorrow,” Scott says, pulling his hand away from Stiles, who's examining his previously bound wrists for injuries that have of course already healed. “Hopefully she knows how to contact Morrell.”

Lydia nods. “Good. They'll be glad to hear it's taken care of.” Scott wipes a hand down his face; exhaustion weighs down his features. “You should get some sleep,” Lydia tells him. He worries too much and sleeps far too little.

He grins at her, eyes tired. “I plan to,” he says.

“Yep, let's get you home, buddy,” Stiles says. He slaps Scott on the back. “I'm driving you. Malia, you need a ride?”

Malia shrugs, unfolding herself from her seat on the ground. “Guess I do, yeah.”

The three of them pile into Stiles' Jeep. There's a moment where the night air is filled with an awful, hitching sputter, and Lydia thinks the car might not start, but it does, and they drive off.

The night has a sudden, strange quiet to it without Stiles' jabbering or Malia's grumbling or Scott's tired, caring energy worrying over everyone.

“You girls will be all right?” Deaton asks, voice a familiar grain in the quiet fall air.

Lydia's hand found Kira's again somewhere along the way; she squeezes it, smiling a little. “Yeah,” she says. “We'll be fine.”

And they're left alone at the edge of the woods under the star-freckled, gauzy-clouded sky.

“Thanks,” Kira says after several beats of silence, leaning into Lydia.

Lydia tips her head against Kira's. “For what?”

“For saving my butt back there.”

Lydia glances at her to see a tiny grin. Kira dips in for a quick kiss; turning to face her directly, Lydia slides a hand up into Kira's hair and holds her there, tracking the tip of her tongue across Kira's bottom lip.

She pulls back, smiling smugly at Kira's pinked lips and cheeks. Her eyes stay closed, mouth a contented curve. Lydia drags her gaze over Kira's dark eyelashes, pretty lips. She wonders if Karly had a spell that could stop time—but no, that's not what she wants: she just wants to drink in this moment while it's happening, and then have many, many more like it with Kira.

Kira's eyes flicker open, teeth catching her bottom lip as she smiles. Lydia rubs her thumb gently against Kira's neck. Then she catches a reflection in Kira's irises, and she laughs.

Kira frowns. “What's funny?”

Turning, Lydia points—there's a crescent moon in the sky.

Kira groans. “Okay,” she says. “Enough kissing, and enough monster-fighting. Can you drop me home?”

Still grinning, Lydia hooks their arms together as they start for her car. “Sure thing, sweetheart.” She flicks her eyes sideways to confirm that Kira's cheeks flood pink at the petname. “But you can stay over at my place if you want, you know,” Lydia adds slyly. “No sex, I swear, just sleeping. Although...”

Kira narrows her eyes, but a small smile doesn't leave her mouth. “What?”

“I'm kind of craving cookies,” Lydia says lightly, tossing her hair behind her shoulder.

“No,” Kira says, looking like she's torn between laughter and horror. “Oh, my gosh, no way. No. Never. I'm never eating another cookie again.”

“Not even if I make them?” Lydia says sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

Kira scrunches up her face. “I really like you, Lydia, but—no. No way. She's ruined cookies for me for a while.”

They have to break apart to get into separate sides of the car, but Lydia waits before she starts the engine to stare at Kira another moment, her pinky finger just touching Kira's where it rests beside her leg on the seat. A slight smile rests easily on Kira's mouth despite the fatigue obvious in her posture.

“What about hot cocoa?” Lydia asks, voice quiet, teasing.

Kira's face erupts in a grin, though by the way she bites her bottom lip it looks like she tries to prevent it. “I... might still be able to drink hot chocolate,” she admits.

“Good,” Lydia says crisply, starting the car. She tries to swallow down a smile, but fails miserably. “I'll make you some when we get home.”

 


End file.
